


Regression

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-08-10
Updated: 2003-08-10
Packaged: 2018-12-27 06:50:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12075756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: It's a quiet Sunday morning. Brian and Justin hang out at the loft. There is mention of crayons.





	Regression

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

I crack my eyelids open, and feel my entire face contort into a wince as the sun hits my pupils. It’s pouring in hard through my windows, which means it’s almost afternoon. I usually hate to sleep this late, but then again it is Sunday, and I had a long night at Babylon. I stretch my arms out to the side, and it occurs to me to wonder idly where Justin might be.

Subconsciously, I knew he wasn’t next to me, even in my sleep. I have this weird radar with him, and I always know whether or not he’s in the bed. But it’s not until I blink a few more times that the thought filters into my mind that if he’s not _here_ , he must be somewhere _else_ , and that I have the vague desire to know where that somewhere else is. Also, I want him to make me breakfast. 

As I stretch again, I breathe deeply, and suddenly recall why I woke up in the first place. I suck in another breath and the warm smell of cooking fills my senses. A smile curves over my lips as I realize that the little shit has anticipated me. 

I stand up, my black cotton pants slipping low over my hips, which I know will drive him wild. Wandering out of the bedroom and down the stairs, I am met with the sight of Justin, apron and all, sliding an omelet onto a plate. I walk over and lean against the counter, sneaking my fingers under the tie on his apron, and tugging at him a bit. 

He looks up at me with those bright blue eyes.

“I made you an egg-white omelet with green peppers,” he says, gesturing to the plate, his eyes not leaving mine. Impulsively, I snake my head down and bite his neck. He squirms away from me, his nose wrinkling up like it does when he’s halfway between a grimace and a smile. He kisses me briefly, running his tongue over my bottom lip, and then pulls away, handing me a fork and moving around the counter to take off the apron and put it back in the drawer. 

I watch him from beneath my sleep-heavy lids as he tidies up the sink and stove. After wiping his hands off on a dishtowel and surveying his domain with approval, he walks out of the kitchen and heads toward the couch. Instead of sitting on it, he drops to the floor, all but his mussed blonde head disappearing behind the creased leather. Picking up my plate, I walk leisurely over to lean the front of my thighs against the back of the couch, so I can observe my little chef at play. 

I pause to take another bite of the omelet, and my eyebrows inch upward of their own volition, because it tastes really damn good. He glances up and catches my expression before I can wipe the impressed look off my face. So he grins, satisfied, and in response I open my mouth and stick out my tongue, laden with half-chewed eggs and peppers. His smile twists into a smirk, and he makes little huff of amusement, despite himself. 

Then he turns his attention back to the materials strewn over the floor and continues—

No. The boy clearly slipped some hallucinogenic chemicals in with the peppers, because there is no way that he’s actually doing what my eyes are telling me he’s doing. Leaning over the clean white paper, his hand suspended just above the surface, he tilts his head and ponders, with apparently no sense of irony, where to make the first mark. With his crayon. 

In his gently curved right hand, he is holding a Cerulean Blue Crayola crayon. The yellow box, with the precise rows of rainbow-colored triangles peeking from the top, familiar from long years of elementary school, is waiting patiently next to him. I stare. 

Blinking, in an attempt to clear my apparently drug-addled brain (Could it be the lingering effects of a bad hit I took last night?), I place my half-finished omelet on the floor, and straighten to consider the situation. It occurs to me, as I remember who I’m looking at, that maybe he is really drawing with crayons. I decide to test this theory. 

“Justin, is that a crayon you have?”

“Yep,” he answers brightly, not looking up from his doodles. It’s impossible to consider them anything else, now that he has chosen Purple Pizzazz to continue his artistic endeavor.

I suck in my cheeks, taking a moment to decide if I currently have the stamina to prolong this conversation, or if I should instead retreat back to the warm comfort of my bed. Then I recall that this is my loft, goddammit, and I want to know why it’s been converted into a Kindergarten Craft Center. 

“And why the hell are you drawing with crayons?” I demand. 

He stops and looks up at me thoughtfully. I can tell that an explanation worthy of his Dartmouth admissions essay is going to follow, and I wonder whether shoving those crayons up his ass would preclude any sort of sexual activity later in the day. 

“Brian,” he begins, settling back against my absurdly expensive coffee table. I suppress the urge to order him to relocate the crayons a safer distance from its surface. “You know how when an activity is really important to you, it can be overwhelming? And occasionally you need to relax, though you’d really prefer not to stop at all?” 

He pauses to let me process his thesis statement, and I roll my eyes at his pedantry. He passes a hand over his mouth, as if in thought, but I can tell he’s really just covering a smile. Asshole. After clearing his throat rather pompously, he continues.

“It’s a bit like how you pick up a trick to take a break from the all-consuming intensity that is your love for me.” 

He says this with an absolutely straight face, but his eyes are twinkling furiously. There’s a tiny part of me that’s relieved he can actually joke about this, but mostly I just want to smack him. 

In a truly laudable display of restraint, I merely raise my eyebrows to indicate that I understand his general point, but in no way concede the particulars. He recognizes my expression and smirks, because he knows exactly how much he’s irritating me, and loves it because he knows exactly _why_ it irritates me. Such a fucker. 

Managing to control himself after moment, he resumes his dissertation on how our non-relationship bears a metaphorical resemblance to his crayon doodles. Gesturing to the aforementioned infantile scrawls, he says, “This is like a break for me from my art. It’s relaxing, but I’m still drawing.”

I nod seriously. “So what you’re saying is that you’re having a torrid affair with Crayola behind your charcoal pencils’ backs?”

He pitches Atomic Tangerine at me as a retort. How very mature. 

“You know, Halloween’s coming up. Maybe you could dress up as the Royal Purple crayon,” I suggest. He sticks his tongue out, sort of sneering at me, because he knows I’m right. He’s a queen, through and through. 

Shaking his head, Justin returns to his scribbles. I pick up my omelet, intending to return to the kitchen in an attempt to salvage a little sanity from my Sunday morning, but as I’m turning, I feel his eyes on me, narrowed and evaluating. 

I look down at him, casually hooking my thumb in the waistband of my pants, pulling them lower to augment my chances of a positive verdict. Not that I need it, but I like to help the boy out when I can. 

He just rolls his eyes, and then points to the space on the floor near him. “Come here, you should try it. It’s very therapeutic.”

I give him a look that suggests my opinion of therapy in general, but I mosey toward him and drape myself across his lap anyway, because I know that’s where he really wants me, despite the fact that he’s now pushing me off. My, my, someone’s bitchy around their crayons. 

I’m not quite sure why I’m sitting here with Justin, on my hardwood floor, next to my Italian leather sofa, indulging his little grade-school daydream. But fuck it; it’s late Sunday morning, I’m still hungover from last night, my omelet is cold now, and he’s wearing that blue shirt I bought him, the same color as his eyes. Cerulean blue. 

Also, I suspect that if I play along for a while, I might be able to get a really spectacular blowjob out of this. 

Justin thrusts the crayon box in my direction, and I make a show of huffing irritably while reaching out and grabbing blindly for a crayon. I resist the thought that perhaps my reach wasn’t so blind when I notice what color I’ve selected. Sunshine yellow.

Fuck me.

To spite him, because I decide that he must somehow have manipulated me into picking that color, I proceed to draw rows and rows of very anatomically correct suns in various lewd positions. Hey, this is actually kind of relaxing. 

I show him my picture with a look of mock hesitancy, biting my bottom lip, and he rolls his eyes again, but I can tell he’s holding back a laugh. And that sunshine grin. 

I manage to actually sit quietly for another fifteen minutes, drawing several renditions of a sun sucking on the protruding end of a fingernail moon (maybe he’ll get the hint), and watching him surreptitiously out of the corner of my eye. He has that look of involvement on his face that always appears when he’s drawing, his eyes glowing with internal incandescence, but it’s more relaxed, and his hand strokes across the page swiftly and casually. 

And with that thought, containing ‘hand’ and ‘strokes’ in the same sentence, I can’t wait any longer. I return my Sunshine Yellow crayon back to its home, shift some papers out of the way, and lean toward Justin to begin running my teeth and tongue over his neck. 

He squirms again, but he’s not putting up much of a fight this time, and half a minute later he’s leaning into it and groaning my name.

Four more minutes and we’re rocking naked on the floor, my cock up his ass, my teeth marking his neck (I just can’t seem to get enough of his neck this morning), and his arms wrapped tightly around my back.

My fingers are woven securely through his flaxen hair, gripping him as I thrust in and out, feeling him arch toward me as the air leaves my chest in a _whoosh_. 

“Jesus. Fucking. Christ. _Brian_.” 

And I am undone. 

He comes soon after, and we lay there in the cool autumn sun, breathing together, gleaming with a sheen of sweat that I can taste when I press my lips to his collarbone. He runs his fingernails lazily up and down my spine, and I grunt a little as my eyelids droop. 

We stand a while later and shower together, where he takes the opportunity to have some quality time with my lips that he missed out on because I couldn’t stop sucking his neck. I don’t complain. Then I dry him off, trying to keep the look off my face that betrays that swelling feeling I get in my chest when he leans into me, eyes closed and smiling, as I run the towel over his sides. 

I shove him out the door, dodging his swat as he stumbles past me, and tell him to hurry up and get dressed so we can go visit Gus and have brunch with the munchers. 

Later that night, Justin already in bed waiting, I pause to tidy up the kitchen on my way to him…well, to bed. As I’m about to flip off the lights, I notice a white scrap of paper sticking out from the top of the garbage. I tug it out and reveal Justin’s drawing, a quick sketch of the fountain in the park, with children sailing toy boats and parents milling around behind. I remember we took Gus there last week, and he couldn’t decide if he was terrified of or fascinated by the geese. 

To Justin, this piece of paper is just a doodle, something he does to unwind and then tosses away when he’s finished. Impulsively, before my better judgment retakes control of my rogue limbs, I pull the paper all the way out of the garbage, rummage around in the drawer for a magnet, and then stick the drawing to the refrigerator. He’ll see it when he gets up for class tomorrow, when I’m still at work. 

While my self-control is apparently still _in abstentia_ for another moment, I grab the crayon box from the counter, flip open the top, and pull out the Sunshine Yellow crayon. Without thinking, I toss it into my briefcase and then turn quickly to head to the bedroom, to my own ray of sunshine, who has blasted my brain with so much fucking light, I can’t even see straight anymore.


End file.
